


Keep Close for Warmth

by theweddingofthefoxes



Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Prison, cowgirl style, cuddles that become sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15244884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweddingofthefoxes/pseuds/theweddingofthefoxes
Summary: After coming back from prison, Clyde installs air conditioning in his home -- and the two of you are going to have to keep close in bed if you want to stay warm.





	Keep Close for Warmth

You’d asked Clyde once, just playfully, what he’d do with a billion dollars. “Besides the obvious – your family, stuff like that.” You really were curious. He wasn’t really the sort for sports cars or gold bars or Picasso paintings. His idea of fancy was the sit-down steakhouse, and maybe the kind of scotch only a bartender could really appreciate (though secretly, he was just as happy to drink lemonade). What would he pick?

 

He surprises you. “Central air conditioning.”

 

“With a billion dollars?”

 

“Reckon I’d have some left over.”

 

You can’t help but laugh. “Just a little bit.”

 

“The rest, I dunno, maybe I can pay some of those Japanese scientists to grow a new arm in a test tube. They can do that now. If you got the money.”

 

“A billion’s a lot,” you agree. 

 

“But it ain’t much good if that one’s sweatin’ as much as the rest of me.”

 

Summer in Appalachia starts early, end of April, practically, and is syrupy-hot. Even walking as far as the mailbox is like swimming in a pot of cooking oil that’s been on the stove a good long while. By ten in the morning, the flowers are wilted, and by three in the afternoon the world is as hazy and bright as the ruins of a nuclear apocalypse. It’s not until the sun begins to go down that any beauty emerges – the pink streaks in the deep blue sky, the pretty owls with faces like dinner plates that roost up in the trees, the thick scatterings of fireflies (though Clyde calls them lightning bugs) just off the roadside. They had fireflies in Baltimore, but not like this. 

 

It is air-conditioned in the bar, though, and that’s where you stay for as long as possible. Clyde lets you charge your phone in the outlet that the jukebox is plugged into and plies you with Sprite, like he’s a chaperone at a school dance. You go home with him regularly, but you both hate how hot it’s become in the past few weeks. Sure, it sounds like it’d be sexy, a leadup-to-a-porno kind of situation, where both parties shed their clothes and get it on. Instead it is misery, and no amount of stripping down to skivvies makes it any better. Even at night, the heat is oppressive, and the fans can only do so much. It’d be like having sex in a sauna, exhausting to think about. You two fool around in your cars instead for now, where the bass of the radio and the movement of your bodies both have the cab shaking on its wheels.

You don’t get much of a chance to visit the baking house as the summer progresses anyway, since he’s in prison. You don’t tell him this, but it sort of only adds to his appeal, that he has a record now, especially since nobody got hurt and there wasn’t any malice. He seems surprised you’d bother to stick around, but how could you stay away? 

 

When he’s out, he calls you. He tells you again that he missed you, like he hasn’t said this a million times before. You feel rather pleased by the prospect of being so missed, even though you missed him too, really badly. He doesn’t want to talk much about what happened. He calls it the ‘accident’, even though the town gossip has made it sound like slamming into that storefront was pretty damn purposeful. 

He sounds tired, but he wants to see you. Soon. Not right this moment, not that he says that bald-faced – he’s far too polite for that – but the tone of his voice says it all. You feel a pang of pity for his weariness and assure him he can have all the time he likes. You two arrange a date to meet up again in a few days, a proper reunion. You want to give him space, time to see his family first. It seems only polite, let the man settle a little bit, but it seems hardly improper to masturbate in anticipation while you wait it out, thinking of being reunited. Steel bars do, in fact, make the heart grow fonder. It’s fucked up, and you won’t tell him so unless he steers the conversation in this direction himself, but you fantasize about riding him ragged in his cell, maybe having paid off a guard or something. Bad boy. 

 

But when you do see him again for the first time, you are reminded of how goddamn sweet he is, how good it feels to hug him. He looks just the same, at least as much as you can see in the middle of his bear hug, he’s had time to shower and properly groom. Look nice for you, that sort of thing. When you pull away, though, you realize one of the arms that is wrapped around you is one you haven’t seen before. It’s not the inflexible beige plastic one that reminds you of a doll arm, but something far, far more badass. 

 

“God!” you exclaim, taking a closer look at it once you’ve finally managed to pull yourself away. “Where did you get that?”

 

“Made it in the prison woodshop,” he teases.

 

“You’re so full of shit.”

 

He smiles, like you’ve told him something far cuter than what you actually said. Though he always says that everything that comes out of your mouth is cute. “Naw, I just decided I was tired of the other one. Got some savin’s, thought I’d hold onto it for a rainy day, but you know what they say. You can’t take it with you.” Perhaps being without the common comforts and conveniences of the life he loved so much for ninety whole days made him decide he could do a little better. 

 

However, it is clear that when it comes to partners, he thinks there is no upgrading possible. He takes you into the house, letting you know that there is ice cream in the freezer, and beer and wine in the fridge. But you don’t get three steps into the front hallway before you stop, delighted. “Air conditioning!”

 

“Thought it was about time for that, too,” he responds, pulling you by the arm like a puppy straining at its leash. 

 

“Thought that was only something for billionaires or whatever,” you tease.

 

“I got the money together,” he concedes. “I’m glad you like it.”

 

“It’s such a relief. Now we can think about something other than how hot it is…”  
The end of August is normally hot and humid enough to make any man suffer out here, but not in Clyde’s updated house. Now, it’s almost too cold, though at this time of the year, there’s really no such thing. You came over sort of hopeful that you two would get right down to business, but it’s been such a joy just talking to him – really talking, privately, freely talking, without any kind of timer, without anyone else waiting to use the phone. It chases any thoughts of pouncing on him from your head, at least for now, and by the time a natural lull forms in the conversation – you’re now so full of ice cream and white wine, too – it’s late, and he murmurs something about bed. Instead of opening every window and keeping all of your fingers crossed for the mercy of a breeze, you can pull a blanket over you and not want to cry, thanks to the AC. Just as well. The sky was dark with clouds when you had arrived, and you would both be liable to get soaked at some point in the night. 

 

Around two in the morning, you renege on your thoughts about it not being possible to be too cold. You wake feeling like you’ve been thrown into an icy lake – geez, how low did Clyde put the temperature? Careful not to disturb him, you sleep out of bed creep over to the new screen that’s attached to the wall in the hallway, dial it back from its highest possible setting to one that’s a little more reasonable – at least for a house that’s now properly cooled down. You swear you can see your breath…but it’s its own reward to snuggle up to Clyde as you return to the tiny spot of warmth you’ve created and press your face into his broad back.

 

He’s awake after all. “Chilly, hm?”

 

“Just a little,” you whisper. “Did I disturb you?”

 

“Never did fall asleep.”

 

“You didn’t?”

 

“I was tired but not sleepy. If that makes any sense.”

 

“No, definitely.”

 

“Just wanted to lie down awhile. All quiet and cozy. Plus it was nice watchin’ you. That’s probably kind of odd.”

 

“It’s cute,” you promise, and encouraged, he rolls over so your face is pressed to his chest instead. You can’t help but laugh. “How do you stay so warm, Clyde? You had that air conditioner set to like, forty degrees.”

 

“Did I?”

 

“Not literally, but you might as well have.”

 

He gives the sort of smile that makes the liquid dark of his eyes sparkle in the darkness – this is not the sweet, crooked smile that flashes out at you in many small sparkles like a jewel held up to the sun, but something a little more mischievous. A lot more mischievous. “Suppose I did it on purpose so you’d have to get all nice and close to me.”

 

You give him the softest shove in the world, just something to make that smile deepen a little bit. “Did you really think that far ahead?”

 

“I like it when you’re cuddly.”

 

“You just couldn’t wait a couple months for it to start snowing?” This, as if you’d rather be anywhere than cuddling with him. 

 

“Now how am I supposed to think about snow when it ain’t even September?” he wants to know, hauling you by the hips so you’re sprawled on top of him. His intentions are clear, and you couldn’t be gladder that you got up to turn down that AC. You hope he liked the way you looked when you were standing there in the dim shine of the distant porchlight, just in your underwear, you hope, with a flash of sudden wickedness, that this is just the sort of thing he was imagining he would get to come home to while he was, to put it euphemistically, away. He confirms your suspicions by squeezing your ass with the hand that he hasn’t put away for the night. “How am I supposed to think about anything at all now that I got you back?”

 

Down to business. You can’t help but gasp a little bit at that. How is he so good at getting you wound so tight when he says such sweet things? You suppose it has to do with how deftly his hand is moving down your thigh, not forceful but purposeful. He’s never been the most aggressive one in bed, but you suspect tonight might be different. You wonder if you should tell him how many times you got yourself off while he was gone, but then you’re grinding against him and your mind sputters and whirls as if you’ve been hit in the head with a baseball. Somehow you manage to get your shirt off – an appetizer – even though you’re still seeing stars. 

 

“You’re worth the wait, honey,” you whisper to him, and you feel his fingers prying gently at the waistband of your panties. 

 

“Coulda said the same to you,” Clyde answers. “Good to hear you didn’t have any other little boyfriends in the meantime.”

 

“Nobody else knows how to fuck me right,” you assure him, and it is the magic set of words that unlock your reward, the intensity you’ve been desperate for for the last three months. The gentle tug turns to real, desperate action, and it’s only a few seconds before he’s got your panties down around your knees – helped, of course, by the way you lift your hips so he can do it more easily. You reach down and toss them on the floor, then strip him of his boxers just as efficiently. It’s like trying to ride the mechanical bull down at the club you’ve been to with Mellie a couple of times, because he wants to pull you into a kiss and let you undress him and line you up so he can get inside you as quickly as possible, and he’s so goddamn strong, there’s so much surface area to him, that all you can do is hang on. 

 

“Jesus, beautiful, how’d I get so lucky?” he wants to know, and there is a rasp in his voice that lets you know he is entirely genuine. He slides into you without much trouble at all – you’re sopping, you have been since the moment he rolled onto his side so you could hear his heart beating fast when you buried your face in his chest. Want-want-want. All he wants is you. “Soon as you got here – knew I had everything I needed.” Your hands are tight on his shoulders now, he’s already sweating, even in the chill, which you’ve both pretty much forgotten now. The heat of your blood is all you need, even naked in the cold room. High above, yet somehow sounding no higher than the ceiling, thunder rumbles.

 

“Tell me you missed me,” he whispers as you ride him, trying to keep some precision to it but that’s a losing game. 

 

“Missed you so badly,” you promise, and he soaks it in, his hand tight around your wrist, waiting for more. Now’s the time to tip your hand. “You know that sex shop back in Baltimore I, mm! That I told you about? You know I got a good vibrator there, and I damn near gave myself carpal tunnel thinking about you, using it–” This proves to be another set of magic words as he lets the image fill his mind, there are now two of you, one behind his eyelids desperately getting yourself off all alone, and one riding on top of him, egging him on. “And you, tell me – tell me you missed me, honey–”

 

His breath is coming out in little snarls at first, it’s hard for him to get it all out, but he manages after a beat or two. “Pretty thing, at least you got to play with your fancy toys. I just got to dream, and you were in all of 'em. Couldn’t wait to be inside you, couldn’t wait to see your face once I had you comin’ – that thought, that’s– that’s the best one. Those faces you pull, those could kill a man–”  
He won’t have long to wait to see what he’s been waiting for, of course. You both double down on your efforts, satisfied that the other one has suffered deeply enough during this dry spell. The snarls have turned into loud sounds, each exhale practically a shout, and he likes it when your own sounds get higher, louder, less controlled. “Vibrators don’t moan for you, do they?” he wants to know, half a tease, half a boast. “They don’t let you know how good you’re doin’, and you’re doin’ so damn good–”

 

And of course he’s doing so damn good himself, nobody seems to just know how to buck beneath you like he does – he’s always so eager to impress you, like it’s your first night together and if he impresses you, you’ll stay. But haven’t you always stayed, through everything, even this long recent separation? He rewards you with love and listening, with ice cream and air conditioning, with an orgasm that about stops your heart, and you knew he would, once you got around to it. He loves you so dearly that you’d forgive him if he were shitty in bed but that’s just it, he’s not. Your fingers leave marks on his shoulders that you kiss better later as he hauls you up to your climax with all of the ease of him picking you up and sitting you on the kitchen counter. 

 

Ever the gentleman, his own orgasm chases after, once he knows you’re taken care of he lets himself be selfish and takes you, still not enough might to hurt you but with real abandon. He fills you – Jesus, it was like he was made to measure, that’s how good he feels inside. You don’t really know what your face looks like when you come, you don’t have a mirror handy or anything like that – not like you’d have the presence of mind to check even if you did. But his, wow, it’s so very worth watching, the way his soft lips twist back into an unhelpable cry, and the way his final pants pour out of his mouth and nose. It is the most intense and innocent kind of desperation, and it’s spellbinding. By now, you’ve both been working so hard that the air conditioning once more becomes a necessity instead of a luxury. By now, the rain is tapping loud against the closed windows, but your breathing is still louder. 

 

Vibrators also do not shake out the blankets, while you’re in the bathroom or pull you close when you return, back to where it all started, your head to his chest. You dissolve into giggles – “I can’t breathe!” you say, mock-offended, but you only wiggle far enough away to get a noseful of cool air so you don’t suffocate. His whole arm snakes its way around your shoulders, and he rests his chin against your forehead.

 

“You can breathe now, right?”

 

“I can breathe now, promise.”

 

“Let’s stay like this, hm?”

 

“I’d like that.”

 

“Missed this a lot too. You layin’ here with me, us just havin’ idle conversation. Missed that a lot.”

 

There is another soft rumble of thunder beneath the pattering of rain, and you’re pleased to find that he hasn’t bothered to put his boxers back on as you adjust your position beside him. “Just cuddling for warmth, you know.”

 

“I’m quite fond of it.”

 

He truly is sleepy now, but that’s okay, because he is solid and close and real and back, he is returned to your arms and your bed and your day to day life. It is so very welcome to come back to the mundane, to worry about getting the temperature right and sleeping positions and other ultimately unimportant things. For the first time in awhile, you are sated, you have scratched that itch that you couldn’t reach before, you can sleep easy.

**Author's Note:**

> A Tumblr story that became longer and more involved than I expected! Gosh, Clyde is a cutie. Growing up in Appalachia myself gave me a leg up on this one, maybe.


End file.
